


Rolling Hitch

by tessiete



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Jedi Apprentice Series - Jude Watson & Dave Wolverton, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Hair Braiding, Hair Washing, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, Hurt Qui-Gon Jinn, Platonic Bathing, Sickfic, The Author Regrets Nothing, Tropes, and metaphorical knots, equal opportunity whumpage, everyone gets whumped, knots it's about knots, literal knots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26074366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessiete/pseuds/tessiete
Summary: Obi-Wan Kenobi is good at knots.His fingers are lithe and dexterous, winding a cord about itself, twisting it into all manner of useful contortions. Knots that bind, that secure, that fasten, and attach.For a padawan of the infamous Qui-Gon Jinn, it is a very useful skill to have. And he has plenty of opportunity to cultivate it.
Relationships: Qui-Gon Jinn & Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 147





	Rolling Hitch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kyber-erso (aoraki)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aoraki/gifts).



> This is the tropiest tropey garbage to ever trope. But WHO DOESN'T LIKE SICK FICS? That's right. No one. So take it, and get it out of my google docs, tyvm.
> 
> As always, thanks to  treescape ,  TeaRex ,  Pomiar ,  MidnightDelirium  and  acatbyanyothername  for putting up with me. I love you ALL.
> 
> I think I'm [tessiete](https://tessiete.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is good at knots.

His fingers are lithe and dexterous, winding a cord about itself, twisting it into all manner of useful contortions. Knots that bind, that secure, that fasten, and attach. 

For a padawan of the infamous Qui-Gon Jinn, it is a very useful skill to have. And he has plenty of opportunity to cultivate it.

There’s the mission on Ralos Prime where the local population of rapacious vora wolves had seen them forced to sleep suspended in a hammock over the great Dula River. Their stolen transport had broken down in the middle of the forest following a desperate flight from the city, and rather than press on through the night, beating back predators in the dark, Qui-Gon insisted that greeting the dawn with a rested mind and body would wonderfully improve their prospects.

“Call it a practical demonstration of old-world rigging,” Qui-Gon had said, and Obi-Wan had set about securing their berth.

There had also been the time when Obi-Wan had been reduced to a pack fathier during a laborious tundra crossing on a moon in the Aduba system. The vast salt flats had promised little rest, or shade, but their even surface had allowed passage for the heavy sledge fastened to his waist.

Once, during a particularly tedious affair having to do with a secret betrothal and an ancient blood feud, Obi-Wan as a neutral party (being a Jedi), and a pure heart (being the youngest present at not quite fourteen), had been called upon to bind together the fingers, wrists, and forearms of the affianced couple. Qui-Gon had warned him that special attention must be paid to the knots, as a careless tie or premature unravelling might lead to a new break in hostilities, and a world plunged once more into the chaos of war.

So Obi-Wan had been careful to make every knot double.

And yet, for all the skill he possesses in the making of a knot, he is equally skilled in the unmaking of them. The hammock had to be dismantled, the sledge released, and the wedding ties unfastened so that eager fingers and hands might take up the burden of their cause alone.

He is glad for this skill now, as he sits with his master in the weak light of early morning, combing out the nest of Qui-Gon’s hair into silken ribbons that run soft like young roots across his pillow. 

A little roost of blankets and rugs lies tousled next to Qui-Gon’s bed, but though he’d huddled beneath them, and closed his eyes, Obi-Wan hasn’t slept. He couldn’t. Instead, he’s spent the night counting the seconds between each of his master’s breaths. He’s listened close, measuring each inhalation against the next and the next. They are always even, but in their painful rasping draw lies the fear that they might not remain so. In the dark, and all alone, Obi-Wan feared a sudden turn, and worse - what may happen should he sleep through it.

So he’d abandoned his nest, wrapped a single, thin blanket around his narrow shoulders, and knelt at his master’s head. Once or twice, the thick molasses of night pulled him towards sleep, and he leaned forward to lie upon the mattress, or his master’s shoulder, but no sooner did his eyes drift shut, then he was startled awake once more, uncertain if any time had passed at all. After some hours, the passage of the stars seems an abstract concept, and his own fatigue a fuzzy and undefinable thing. 

He waits. It is a painful thing. His legs ache from too long spent folded beneath him, his hands twisting at the little fringe dangling from the hem of his blanket. At some point before the greying of dawn, he retrieves his master’s brush from his bedside, and begins to work at knots.

Qui-Gon’s hair is long. It is thick. In parts, it is dark, and in others, an ashy kind of clay. The strands are neither coarse, nor fine, and here and there run streaks of grey. Obi-Wan drags his fingers through it, following the trail of the brush to be sure that no twisted gnarl of silk remains, and he takes comfort in the softness of it. It is warm near the scalp where he slips his fingers into it, brushing up against his master’s scalp, and then cooling the further away he pulls his hand until it is the same temperature as the pillow upon which Qui-Gon lies. 

He sits there, pulling the bristles through the long hair again, and again, and again. One hundred strokes, then another hundred. By the time he has finished he is calm, and the hair beneath his hands so soft as to be nearly incorporeal, drifting across his knuckles like the wing-tip kiss of a Carrier butterfly.

Obi-Wan splits his master’s mane into three even parts, taking great care that not one strand is forgotten or mislaid. Then, with hands well practiced in the art, he begins to plait. The day comes on gently as he works, peeking through blinds as though waiting for an invitation into the space. Obi-Wan does not acknowledge his silent spectator, his eyes having long ago adjusted to the blues and blacks of the dark, and held there still with a weariness that has forgotten the passage of time. His master lies quiet and still before him, the thin sheen of sweat catching diamonds as the light creeps slowly on with awe and reverence for the scene.Over, under, over, under, the three strands circling each other as lovers at a dance, their orbits becoming smaller, and tighter until the braid narrows to completion at the end of its length. With a spare bit of thread from his own supply, Obi-Wan secures the braid at the base, and coils it neatly at the top of Qui-Gon’s head.

Then, his task complete, Obi-Wan sighs, and reaches once more to take his master’s hand. But this time, when he curls his fingers over the much larger digits, the hand in his presses back. His master is awake.

“Obi-Wan,” he says, and it is a bare whisper as though even he would not startle the absent sleepers here. 

“I’m here, master,” he says, bringing his other hand up to lie upon the first, Qui-Gon’s own clasped close between. 

“Have you been here all night?” His voice rumbles low in his chest, roughened with the abuse of a cough. Obi-Wan reaches toward the shelf just above his master’s head, and retrieves a small cup of tea. The contents have long since gone cold, but he’d brewed a sweet herbal blend in readiness of that outcome. He brings it to Qui-Gon’s lips, and helps him to sip at the drink, slowly, only taking in a little.

“I couldn’t leave you,” he replies. 

There is silence broken only by Qui-Gon’s heavy sigh as he sinks back into his pillow, his eyes drifting shut once more. The fever has broken, but now is the exhaustion of armistice, and his body longs for true rest.

“You need to sleep,” he mumbles. His own exhaustion makes for a compelling testimony, but Obi-Wan doesn’t move.

“I’m not tired,” he says. Then, when Qui-Gon says nothing, but only shifts to find a more comfortable position on his side, the braid sliding out of its coil, Obi-Wan continues. “I braided your hair.”

“Thank you, my Padawan.”

“I was afraid…”

Qui-Gon’s breathing comes more easily, but Obi-Wan can still hear time passing in the trail it scours through Qui-Gon’s chest. He listens until he’s certain his master has gone back to sleep. But he is wrong.

“Do not be afraid,” Qui-Gon murmurs, still clear enough for Obi-Wan to hear. “It is only a little illness. You’re not rid of me yet.”

Even in his malaise, he smirks, the spark of his old humour doing more to reassure Obi-Wan of his prognosis than his words.

“I just wanted to make sure,” he replies.

“To bed,” he instructs, removing his hand from beneath Obi-Wan’s to give him an encouraging pat. “You have class in the morning, and I should not like to see you fall behind on my account.”

“I have no fear of that, Master” Obi-Wan says. His voice is quiet, as he leans forward to draw the blanket higher on his master’s chest, straightening out the twists of cloth, and smoothing out its tangled folds. “I have spent the night giving a practical demonstration of old rigging.”

* * *

Qui-Gon has always enjoyed a challenge. His mind is sharp, and his patience abundant, and he thinks it is not too arrogant of him to say that he has a unique capacity for heeding and abiding by the will of the Living Force.

He is not, however, particularly fond of the hypothetical.

_That_ is Obi-Wan’s field.

Philosophical conundrums, moral quandaries, and theoretical dilemmas to him always have a variety of possible outcomes. Some are more desirable than others, but there are none more inherently _correct_. Their solutions are relative to their context, but for Obi-Wan, this is unsatisfying. He thirsts for the absolute. 

“Surely there must be one solution - one choice - which paves the way for the next, and next, leading us into a better future? Surely, that is the way progress is made?”

He picks apart the intricacies and vagaries of such issues, working at the knots of each premise until the the gnarled length of each problem comes undone, and lies neat and orderly in his mind. It is not enough for him to see the tapestry of rhetoric, he must also comprehend its weave.

Qui-Gon accepts the will of the Force and acts upon it. Obi-Wan must know _why_.

He admires this about his student. He encourages it, and he thinks this strange combination of logic and compassion will one day be the saving of worlds. However it will not be _this_ day.

This day, Obi-Wan’s incessant questioning, and curiosity has resulted in his imprisonment. By way of course, this has itself brought peace negotiations to an abrupt, and unfortunate halt, and left his poor master in the throes of his own badly concealed contortions of disquiet.

And while he is certainly relieved when, little more than a day later, Obi-Wan comes traipsing down the road towards the citadel of his own power, he’s not at all reassured by the jaunty smile, and cavalier attitude. There’s a stiffness to his padawan’s shoulders, and though they have broadened in recent years, they are still not quite wide enough to bear the burdens he so readily takes upon himself, and Qui-Gon worries.

Somehow, though, he’s come back with insight that brings both factions together, and by day’s end, the terrorist threat is suppressed, and an armistice has been signed. Perhaps it is not quite salvation, but it is better than utter ruination.

Yet, when he turns to his padawan in the wake of the delegation’s exit, Obi-Wan is sagging against the holotable. His arms are locked, braced against the edge, his head hanging heavy between them.

“Obi-Wan?”

“I apologise for delaying proceedings, master,” he replies, but his voice is breathy, and catches in a strange way. 

“I apologise for not thinking to pass you off to the insurrectionists when we first arrived,” says Qui-Gon. “It might have saved us weeks of debate.”

There’s a huff of laughter, but Obi-Wan does not look up. Rather more alarmingly, he drops. His elbow buckles, and he slips to the floor without any effort made to catch himself. But Qui-Gon does. He’s there with an arm behind the boy’s shoulders, and the other flung across his chest, clasping his padawan against him, the body feeling too thin, and fragile beneath the bundle of robes, like a crystalline bird wrapped for safekeeping.

“You’re hurt,” he says. His hands shift as he tries to assess, find the source of Obi-Wan’s misery.

“No,” his padawan protests. “Just tired.” 

But then, Qui-Gon’s hand ghosts low over Obi-Wan’s ribs, and he inhales sharply, air hissing through his teeth. 

“Obi-Wan -”

“Alright, _mostly_ tired,” he says, and as though to prove his point, his eyes slip shut easy as dreaming, and he turns into Qui-Gon’s chest.

The master sighs, hiking his charge up to lie more securely against him, and rising, tightening his embrace. The sudden movement startles Obi-Wan, perhaps jarring his injury, and for a moment he flails out, his legs kicking in an attempt to restore his relationship with gravity.

“No,” he protests, though his voice is muffled by the thick wool of Qui-Gon’s cloak, his head too heavy to lift. “I can walk.”

“Padawan,” chides Qui-Gon, “You could hardly stand.”

“I can walk,” he says, but the tension seeps from his body, and he goes limp in Qui-Gon’s arms as sleep does its best to make a liar of Padawan Kenobi. 

“You can,” says the master. “But since we are in agreement, I see no reason for you to provide proof. Rest, now.”

Another protest, another tangled note of distress, or perhaps simply a sigh smothered by the weight of fatigue, and Qui-Gon’s burden gives in.

They encounter no one in their journey to their rooms - lavish quarters conferred on them by the local assemblage in spite of their assurance that they required no such flattery. Yet now, Qui-Gon is grateful. The door slides shut behind him, and the world beyond goes silent. Inside, the plush carpets, and quilted walls keep the peace. It is a relief from the constant thrum of atmo regulators and air cyclers, the whistling tones of binary between droids, and the raised voices of parliament, and various officials. It’s a relief from the demands of revolutionary zealots, the sharp crack of skin on skin, the crackle of electroprods, the rattle of chains, and the choked screams of imprisonment. The latter have not been confessed by Obi-Wan, but Qui-Gon can hear them so vividly in his head he isn’t convinced that the boy’s shields are as strong as they seem, or their bond as clouded by distance or design. He isn’t convinced that it’s _just_ his imagination.

He leans down to place his padawan upon the low sleep couch he’d claimed as his own, leaving its grander counterpart to his master, but the movement rouses him and he wakes enough to continue their debate.

“Wait - no,” he says, clinging to Qui-Gon even as the master moves to let go. 

“Yes, padawan,” he says. “Sleep.”

“Not there,” says Obi-Wan, and Qui-Gon hesitates, holding the boy close waiting for an explanation, but dreading a horrible revelation.

“What is it?” he whispers close to his ear, as Obi-Wan relaxes back into him.

“‘M dirty,” he says. “Bed’s clean.”

“ _Padawan_ -” he begins, and his tone must change because Obi-Wan lifts his head, and rolls out of his arms to stagger to his feet. Qui-Gon allows him an easy escape, but is there to grip his shoulder as he stumbles.

“Just gonna have a bath,” Obi-Wan insists, though he makes no move towards the fresher. “In a second. Just...gotta think about it first. Make a plan. Then a bath.”

Qui-Gon nods. He indulges Obi-Wan for a moment, then another, and as he begins to sway the master feels his scepticism shift to a sort of fond irritation.

“If you take a bath now you’re likely to drown,” he says. 

“Okay,” Obi-Wan agrees. 

“I believe you may want to reconsider your plan,” he says.

“A bath,” his padawan murmurs, insistent though the sound he makes is more the idea of a phrase than a word itself. 

“So obstinate, you are,” he teases. “Foolish, and headstrong. Must you defy me at every turn?”

“No, master,” he says. “Only, I…”

“Come,” says Qui-Gon. “Treaties are not brokered through strict adherence to rigid doctrines, but through negotiation.”

“Surrender,” Obi-Wan replies, and even in his exhaustion there are notes of contumacy.

“No,” corrects Qui-Gon, fondly. “Compromise. Let me help you to shower in accordance with your desires, and then we’ll put you to bed, in accordance with mine.” He curls his arm around his padawan and leads him to the fresher.

What awaits them is much like the rest of their accommodation, far exceeding the ascetic standards of the Temple. The room is a glittering monument to hygiene and serenity. The floor is paved with ceramplast tiles clean of grime, the grout between them clear of mould. The walls are lined in warm golden tones, the light refracted through crystalline shades. A huge basin stands free in the middle of the room, promising fathomless indulgence and luxury, but Qui-Gon steers them past it to a shower of near equal extravagance in the corner. Depositing his listless padawan upon a plump tuffet nearby, the master flicks on the water and adjusts the temperature to his satisfaction. Steam builds, and he allows himself to revel in the novelty of the room’s humidity. Water is a precious commodity even on Coruscant, and sonic showers are faster and more efficient. But in this instance, he feels it essential he allow this extravagance.

When at last, the temperature is balanced on the precipice of perfect heat, he removes his hand from the spray and addresses his padawan.

“Obi-Wan?”

“Hm?”

“Up.” The command is firm, but the flesh is rather less so, his student remaining slumped where he sits.

“Yes, master,” he says. He does not move.

The master exhales deeply, then steps forward to attend his recalcitrant apprentice. The boy lies soft beneath his ministrations, plastered against the wall, as he undoes the buckle of his belt, and unwinds the obi from its wrap. The tabards are next, sliding unresisting down his shoulders, and off his arms. These are followed by the outer tunic, and Obi-Wan shivers slightly, his brow crumples though no furrow appears, as though even that is too much effort. Stripped of his swaddling, Qui-Gon can see the marks of cruelty upon him. Thin cuts, perhaps a lash or two, and bruises too numerous to count, his ribs a motley colour of green and red, the abuse still young upon his skin. He brushes a hand across the darkest stretch. Obi-Wan flinches, and Qui-Gon pulls away.

“You’ve managed to lose your sark, I see,” he remarks, bending now to undo the fastenings of the boy’s boots.

“Couldn’t find it ‘fore I left,” Obi-Wan mumbles. “Kept my cloak, though.”

“That is some comfort, then.” He tugs one foot free of its carapace, strips off the stocking bunched and mangled at the base of his heel, and sets to work on the other. Obi-Wan stirs at the disturbance to his person, and opens his eyes to gaze blearily at his assailant.

“Master?” he asks, his voice fogged with confusion. “Why’re you bowing t’me?”

Laughter bubbles up in Qui-Gon’s chest, mingling with a heave of exertion as he pulls at the second boot, and discards the second sock.

“Such is my devotion, young padawan,” he says. “Now, stand up.”

He rises and assists Obi-Wan to his feet, then undoes the careful knot at the waistband of the boy’s breeches. In tandem with the soft synthcotton cloth of his smallclothes, he rolls the fabric down, dragging it gently over his hips, down his thighs and calves, until it collects at his ankles.

“Step,” he says, and Obi-Wan lifts one foot, bracing himself with a hand to Qui-Gon’s shoulder. “Again.” And again he obeys.

And though he is now naked, he makes no move toward either the shower or back to his seat, too exhausted to choose either, simply awaiting the direction of his master. Qui-Gon considers for only a moment, then comes to a swift decision, stripping off his own layered tunics, and belts. He shucks his boots, but leaves his trousers, keenly aware of the fragile dignity of teenage boys, then leads Obi-Wan to the shower. He holds him with his back pressed to Qui-Gon’s chest as he relaxes beneath the warm stream of water.

“Don’t sleep,” Qui-Gon murmurs, his voice reverberating between them. Obi-Wan is warm against him, the water slowly creeping over their skin, finding even the closest, most precious points of contact between them and seeping through to turn them slick. “Obi-Wan?”

“‘M awake,” he says. “I can...soap.”

“Of course,” Qui-Gon agrees. He turns Obi-Wan to see his face, a smug quirk of his mouth twisting to see that the boy’s eyes are closed in spite of his insistent proclamations of consciousness. He catches Obi-Wan’s jaw in his hand, features slack and serene, and runs a fond caress over the swell of his cheek with his thumb. The padawan braid lies strewn across his chest, trailing a streak of filth as mud, and sweat, and blood are rinsed from its lengths. “First things first,” he says. His fingers are deft as he removes the thread binding the braid, and unravels the weave of his own making, collecting beads and ribbons as he goes. 

With a soap provided, smelling of rich oils and heady blossoms, he works a lather into the strands of the braid, travelling up to the nape of Obi-Wan’s neck, and kneading it deep against his skull. Obi-Wan yields to the pressure and leans forward. Softly, slowly, he careens into Qui-Gon, resting his head against the juncture of Qui-Gon’s neck and clavicle. His breath is hot against his skin, and delicate, hardly discernible from the steam billowing around them, and Qui-Gon resists the urge to keep him there, pressed close to his heart like a rare bloom.

But a Jedi does not seek to possess.

Instead, with great strength, he pulls back. The water courses through the tussock of russet hair, and washes down Obi-Wan’s neck and shoulders in foamy rivers. Qui-Gon lays his hand across his padawan’s brow to shield his fluttering eyes from the deluge of froth, then, with the flat of his palm and the pads of his fingers, he washes away the filth and grime of hardship from his padawan’s face. With thumbs gentled in piety, he wipes the dust from Obi-Wan’s slumbering eyes. The skin of his lids is soft, new; rosy with blood and youth. It is a gossamer thing.

And Qui-Gon aches to feel it. So he does not dwell. He reaches for a rough cloth, soaks it, and runs it over Obi-Wan’s shoulders and collarbone. He follows the lines of his frame, scrubbing at his arms and wrists, and cleansing the dirt from each individual finger, pulling the soap through to their very tips. At his feet, the water changes from a rusty brown to clear running currents.

The master is discreet in his care, and once he has scoured the boy down to his muddy ankles, he rises again, and taps him lightly upon the cheek.

“Obi-Wan,” he speaks, his voice rumbling low.

“Hm, yes?” 

“You must finish up, and I will fetch you a towel.”

He wraps his padawan’s hand around the cloth, sees that his precarious balance holds without the support of his own body, and steps out. The towels, laid out for their use in intricate folds, are made of a rich cloth, and Qui-Gon takes a moment to rid himself of his own sodden pants, replacing them with the spare set laid aside by servants the previous day, and previously ignored.

The water shuts off, and Qui-Gon greets his stumbling padawan with a downy embrace, wrapping the towel around him, and chafing at him vigorously, until his skin is pink, and his hair stands up in wild tufts. 

“‘Nough, enough,” Obi-Wan protests, galvanised by the assault. His voice is suffocated in the swaths of fabric, and his hands tangle in it as he fights to free himself of his nursemaid. 

At last, Qui-Gon relents. From beside the door, he grabs his cloak, discarded the night before in his distraction, and hangs it over the shoulders of his warm, dry, and somewhat ridiculous padawan. The boy is swallowed up in its depths, but there is a contented smile held close, and private in the hidden corner of his mouth as he winds his arms through the sleeves, and wraps himself in its folds. 

He stands when Qui-Gon bids him, and with only a light touch that the master is unwilling to relinquish, he is guided back to his cot. There is no protest when he sinks into the plush bedding, no argument when his head hits the pillow, only a small sigh as Qui-Gon combs out the length of hair that runs just past his shoulder.

His fingers are fleet and nimble as he weaves each lock about the other, well versed in the tapestry of his student’s growth. A black thread here for a life taken, a red higher up for blood spilled. A bead for form mastery, another for academic success. This mark for obedience, this one for independence. Qui-Gon forms the plait without hesitation, each bead a memory, each thread a treasured moment in time, all of them coming to him in this ritual with sweet clarity. He closes his eyes, surrendering his consciousness freely to these cherished visions of Obi-Wan, and the path they’re on, glad to be walking it together. When the last thread is tied, and the braid bound in a tidy cord, he wakes from his meditation expecting to find Obi-Wan asleep. But that is not the case. Instead, an anxious frown has burrowed itself between his padawan’s brows. 

“What is it, Obi-Wan?” he asks.

Obi-Wan twists his head, turning eyes upon his master that are glassy with exhaustion but still troubled. He is searching for something.

“Was it wrong of me?” he asks. “Going with them, as I did?”

Qui-Gon sighs, too weary to contemplate such somber thoughts so late in the day.

“Perhaps not,” he concedes. “Perhaps not wrong. But foolish.”

Obi-Wan is silent as he considers this, and Qui-Gon can see it settle in his mind as though upon a scale. It is one that gives little consequence to the weight of one man’s heart, and he is dissatisfied with the measure it takes.

“But it felt _right_ ,” he insists. 

Qui-Gon considers this as he considers the boy before him. Nearly a man. He is so grown from the child he first met, his braid so much longer now. Qui-Gon may be called a master of the Living Force, but he is merely its servant, not its lord. He must allow that there are aspects of it - eddies and currents - that he does not know; depths he has not plumed. He must allow that Obi-Wan’s experience is not his own, that his vision is not impartial, that his heart is not untouched. Still, he is unconvinced that this was the only course left to them, the only road to peace.

“Right, maybe,” he agrees. “But was it wise?”

And Obi-Wan looks at him, his expression shifting from disquiet to earnest contemplation.

“What’s the difference,” he asks, “Between what is right, and what is wise?”

Qui-Gon considers this, too, and yet, when the answer comes, he knows it is not one that will satisfy his young apprentice. But he offers it anyway, all his revelations and insight the due inheritance of this impossible boy.

“Faith,” he says. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter as he rails against his own lethargy. “But master,” he says. “I don’t understand…”

Qui-Gon pulls the coverlet higher, and watches as sleep steals in to snatch his apprentice from the clinging vines of thought.

“Hush now, and rest,” he says, his hand pressed flat to his padawan’s heart. “It is a knot I suppose you shall have to undo some other time.”

And at last, Obi-Wan sleeps.


End file.
